An Experiment

Experience
she may or may not have been right
written by Naomi T. 
all rights reserved

The music books were from her great-grandmother. Approximately, 20 books and pieces of sheet music; some of it was falling to pieces but some of it was still sturdy and looked brand-new. She was the first cousin who had shown a passion for music, so her Grandmother offered her the books. She promised she would take care of them.

The sentimental value made all the books a priceless treasure to her. When she wasn't agonizing over math problems and delighting in grammar, she would sit at the organ and look at the music. When cleaning bathrooms or vacuuming floors beckoned to her, she would reluctantly drag herself away. But not before she would carefully put the books back in the bench and vigorously threaten caution her many younger siblings to never touch. Well, maybe when she was there to oversee the touching.

School was home, church was home and aside from a few outside the close circle, friends and enemies were siblings. The relatives lived 12 hours away so they only saw the grandparents once a year and the cousins almost never. Life was always busy, always full. They weren't supposed to feel lonely, but she was given to thought, always. Sometimes in her secret heart, the music books were a connection to family and to her past. When she touched them, she imagined that she was enveloped by a connection. A connection of what? She wasn't sure, but it was a good feeling.

Such excitement. Close friends were going to spend a day with them, over the weekend. The house and it's inhabitants were swept away in excitement and a whirlwind of activity. Her mother and father would have been so mortified if people saw their home in any other state but spotless. Pies and breads were baked all day, butter was churned and ice-cream was made. Since her father had no regular work, he could stay home all day and wash the outsides of the windows high on the house. Her mother complimented him as he spent hours make sure there were no streaks left.

The visit was fun. They didn't often get visitors and these were especially welcome. A few hours into it, she suddenly remembered her priceless treasure. She simply had to show one of the girls as she was certain this individual would appreciate the value of it. She selected one of her favorite pieces, which she could only play a little and asked the girl if she could play it. Her friend seemed to be taken aback: of course she would never play this type of music. It was not Christian or God honoring; it was bad music.

It was embarrassing. She felt her face get very red and her stomach started aching. Her mother had been listening in on the conversation as well and she could see her embarrassment as well. How could she have been so stupid? Of course, it was an old folk song. She forgot that no one was even sure if classical music was God honoring. She hurriedly put the sheet music away. The rest of the visit went well and as the minutes passed pleasantly, she forgot all about her stomach ache and her face went back to it's regular color.

The visitors left and the house seemed empty. The girl and her family were all laughing and talking in the afterglow. All was well until her mother looked at her in consternation. She had remembered the music incident. She recounted it to the entire family. The stomach ache came back and the girl left the room quietly. The storm would leave sometime but she had no desire to stay until it's conclusion. It was too embarrassing.

She brought one book upstairs with her, to look at. It was a small book of old cowboy songs and the lyrics interested her. She imagined her great-grandmother playing and singing the songs. She played an organ too. But did she sing? What did her voice sound like?

Hours later, she slipped downstairs to play the organ and comfort herself with more music. She opened the bench. And stopped. Only two pieces of sheet music and a book remained. Even as it did, her mind couldn't understand. She shut the bench, turned slowly away and went to the basement. There were three large garbage cans. She opened the first one. Her music. It was ripped and piled recklessly on the rest of the garbage.

She heard a noise. Her father was standing in the doorway.  Maybe he was trying not to smile, but he was. He had been waiting for her. He didn't say anything. Why? she asked. Because it's frivolous and not God honoring, he replied. His smile disappeared. She can't remember what else she said, but it was something about him not having any right. Or something. She remembers being shocked that he hadn't asked before throwing away her property. But I'm your father, he said. I don't have to ask. She remembers wondering if she could send it back to her Grandmother. But as ripped as it was, she hadn't kept her promise. She was so angry that he didn't let her keep her promise. She ran upstairs and upstairs and upstairs... She slammed the door.

Her body hit her bed with a soft thump and she curled into tight ball, ignoring her sisters. She was too mad to cry. For 20 minutes she stayed like this. Then she started thinking. Will I die from this? No. Should I have allowed my emotions to rule me? No. Will they tell Grandma about this? No. Will she ever know? Maybe when I'm older and I am brave enough to tell her. Does dad know best? No, I don't think so. I'm trying to see it but I can't. Will my opinion matter to him? No. Do I have other things I don't want him to throw away? Yes! There are three pieces left. And I have my books. He could make me do anything because he is stronger and he is my father. Thank goodness I brought the one book upstairs with me.

Still laying on the bed, she carefully hid it between the mattress and box spring. Her best course of action, she decided, was to forget her injured heart for the time being. She would go apologize, even though she was still really angry and didn't think he was right. She knew if she didn't, he would take away the rest of the music. So, she went. She was humble. She was quiet. She didn't look him in the eye because she was afraid he would see she wasn't sincere. She was also afraid she would start to cry. She wouldn't cry in front of him.

There were a few things she was truly sorry for. She wished she had more self control. She wished she had asked him calmly about the music and she wished he hadn't heard the door slam. And though thinking was her life, she rather wished she could accept his ruling and not think. Acceptance makes life so much easier. So does not thinking.

He accepted her apology with graciousness fit for a king. I'm glad you came around, he admitted. I was afraid I was going to have to throw away the rest of your books. She shook her head mutely. He patted her on the shoulder and walked away with a spring in his step.

She went to the organ bench, opened it and and took out the remainder of her music. Upstairs in her corner of the room, she sat on her bed and placed them on her bookshelf -- in broad sight. When everyone had forgotten the incident, she would hide it well. But first things first: she didn't want any attention directed towards the non-God honoring book hidden under her mattress. I'm too clever for my own good, she thought. Suddenly she wished that she didn't have to be.

She realized that just to be safe, she would have to be more careful with her things. She would try to not let people see when she liked something. She would pretend to not care about anything that her parents did not care about. She would insulate her feelings. It was safer not to trust anyone. She would fail sometimes. But she had to start somewhere.

 She felt that lonely feeling again.

The Princess

Her golden hair was braided into three parts; I saw them as she twirled in circles for us. I think she was around five, but you never know. Her little face was so eager as she balanced precariously on her toes.

She was about 2 and 3/4 feet tall: her princess dress (complete with Disney characters inscribed on the bodice) was so light that it shivered and danced with her.

"Excuse me," she said in her little girl voice. She already had our attention; Crystal and I had been admiring her dutifully. Her face dimpled shyly. "Have you seen any boys in the store?"

 We looked at each other, then back at her. "Boys?" I repeated, dumbly. I was so taken by her beauty, my mind was already her servant. (How can I be of assistance to you, m'lady?)

She was quite generous towards my ignorance. "Yes!" she lowered her voice, "Have you seen any boys in the store?"

By this point, I was feeling rather puzzled. Humans of that gender and age do indeed frequent the property but I had not seen any for the past 10 minutes or so. "What do you mean? Because --"

Flushing earnestly she interrupted me, "Yes -- I don't want to be stolen."

Grandma (The Queen) seemed to have arrived at that opportune moment, relieving us of our solemn duties to The Princess. As The Queen whisked The Princess away, Crystal and I heard an authoritative voice declaring, "You're not going to get stolen!"

To this The Princess replied, "But you never know..."

I swear that she almost sounded hopeful. Oh to be a Princess.

Blue Glasses For the Sun Grow Legs

I have two pairs of sunglasses at home in Saskatchewan. The morning we left on our trip, I was driving and the sun came out. That was when I discovered that I had left both pairs back in the house. Unfortunately, my eyes are such that when the sun is out, I need sunglasses to drive. So, at a gas station in Alberta, I saw a rack with sunglasses on it and found a really cool blue pair that I liked. They were cheaper but were comfortable and they looked good on me. So I purchased them and proceeded to grow rather fond of them.

Today, the roses along the pond in California Adventure beckoned to me and I took a dozen or so shots. Then the brilliant idea came to me: why not have my dear, patient husband take my picture with the roses? In preparation for this operation, I took off my snazzy blue sunglasses and laid them on the backpack, handed my camera to Jesse and posed. Two minutes later, Jesse picks up the backpack... and no sunglasses. They had grown legs and walked away. 

At first I was very upset. Jesse assures me that I didn't say much, but I can assure you that I was fighting tears. It didn't help that we were so tired (it was our third day at Disneyland/California Adventure) and hot (the sun came out today, finally!). I started praying that God would work out and I would get my sunglasses back. I prayed that whoever had my glasses would do the right thing and return them. 

Part of the reason I was upset was because Disneyland/California Adventure is a special place. You just don't worry about certain things, like... theft,for instance. I felt perfectly safe leaving my sunglasses on the backpack (which was laying on the ground, 6 ft behind me). When that person took my sunglasses, they disturbed the spirit of trust and honesty of the place. The other part of me was upset that I had spent over $20 on a pair of sunglasses, only to (through foolishness on my part) lose them and waste that money. 

Fast forward two minutes: a float was coming down the street and we were trying to get somewhere else, so we were making our way down the sidewalk. People were everywhere. Suddenly, I spotted a Nikon lens cap laying on the sidewalk. It almost got stepped on three different times before I got there and picked it up. I didn't know where the Lost and Found was, so I handed it to a security officer and off we went. 

Fast forward several hours: we had just come off of the California Screamin' (a huge roller coaster that is awesome... among other things, you go upside down on it) and I looked down beside my foot and there was an earring. Not just a small earring, but a big, expensive looking earring. Again, I had no idea where the lost and found was located so I took it to a security officer. 

My eyes are beginning to close here so I will get to the point(s) of my tale: (1: my glasses are still running and probably will never come back to me. (2: God answered my prayer in a completely different way than I anticipated. (3: I am completely at peace and over the situation. That's called God's answer. (4: Even if I had not been hyper aware of lost/stolen personal belongings, I think I would have done the right thing and taken those items to security. However, maybe I wouldn't have seen them or perhaps, had been too lazy to do anything if my sunglasses hadn't been stolen. (5: Once again, God's way is always best. Even if we don't understand it. However, if we can come to that place of simple faith, we do catch a little glimpse of his glory. (6: Note to self: don't be lazy. Put your belongings in a safe place. :-) (7: I'm so glad they didn't take the backpack.

I Smelled It.

Yesterday, I was at the store and a customer came in. She had white hair, a gentle appearance, was very alert ... and she looked a little lost. I went to her and asked if I could be of service. Yes, she replied, do you have any lotion that could go under makeup? As we walked across the store, she told me she was 88 years old and, through the years, had seen so many changes in the world. I asked her which change was the biggest but we arrived in the lotion aisle before she could answer. We started looking at lotions that would be gentle on her skin and not too greasy for makeup. I picked up two different ones: Vaseline, unscented and Vaseline Chamomile; both were intensive rescue. Since my allergies react to strong fragrance, I had the presence of mind to smell the chamomile lotion. I did not want to send her home with a lotion that might affect her badly. However, my sinuses were not in smelling mode: I couldn't smell anything in that lotion. So, I squeezed the bottle. Just a little. There must have been an air bubble. Suddenly there was lotion on my face; in fact, there was lotion in my nose. It wasn't a lot but enough to make me jerk away from the bottle and get a rather startled look. The funny thing was that this lady started giggling and giggling. The more she giggled, the more I giggled. It was a good moment in the life of Naomi.

 Btw, Vaseline Chamomile Intensive Rescue lotion does actually smell good... and it's not strong at all. I know. I smelled it.

Bad Cat

To begin, I detest cat vomit. Kid vomit is not nearly as gross as cat vomit. Jesse disagrees. He says he'll clean up after the cat and I can clean up after the kids, if we have them. But Jesse wasn't here today and the fact of the matter is, cat vomit is disgusting.
Our cat, Snow, often throws up when he comes back inside from using the great outdoors. The reason for this is that as soon as he gets in, he heads for his food dish and eats too much way too fast. Unfortunately, he doesn't *always* throw up, otherwise we'd be waiting and ready for him. But he does it just often enough to be completely annoying. As the old adage goes: a watched cat doesn't vomit. Probably the least annoying thing about this habit is that usually, he leaves a nice (?), semi dry pile of cat food vomit that simply has not settled in his stomach.
Today, as I was cleaning up the kitchen and porch, I let Snow inside. It must have been half an hour later when I heard the dreadful sound coming from the livingroom. I rushed from the office so fast that I stubbed all of the toes on my left foot. And guess what? He ran. Snow ran through the living room, vomiting. He vomited all the way from the pink couch to the bottom of the stairs: leaving a 12 foot trail of cat food, grass and stomach acid.
Oh joy. I had students coming in less than an hour. The creature ran upstairs and hid under a bed. He knew he was in trouble and I hadn't even expressed my distaste. Well, to be honest I had stated calmly, "You are a very bad kitty." I didn't want to say or do anything else than clean up cat vomit. I was too mad and I never like to act on anger. It's bad policy.
So, I cleaned up the mess, got un-mad, gently coaxed the cat back outside again (so he wouldn't do a repeat while the students were there), tried to wipe the new stain out of the already stained carpet (the previous owners had dogs and kids) and cat vomit is still the most disgusting thing in the world...

Dakota Is The Key

Yesterday, we went to the United States to renew my passport. My passport has been expired for 6 years (and an odd number of days), plus I have been married and had a name change in my absence. To top it all off, I haven't been to the states since grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary in July of '09.

So when the very big, African American border guard took one look at my passport and asked us to come inside, I wasn't surprised. When they had us empty our pockets, looked through Jesse's wallet and my purse and searched the car, I still wasn't surprised.

What did surprise me was when they started apologizing. They didn't ever come out and say, "I'm sorry." It was more like, "You'll soon be on your way... we just have our protocols, etc., etc." "Well, it's just that with your passport being so outdated, we simply have to verify who you are." They started making little jokes and we all laughed together. It was awesome. :-)

The last thing they had me do was fill out a card declaring if we had any tobacco (no), fruits or vegetables (no), bringing anything down to sell (no), firearms or weapons (no), money over x number of dollars (no) and our destination, which I wrote down as "Minot, SD."

Now, there were two border guards and my husband both peering over my head as I wrote that. No one said anything. No one even noticed. It wasn't until we were back in our car and on our merry way that I said, "South Dakota, eh?" and my husband looked at me strangely and said, "We're not going to see Mount Rushmore today." Haha!


Ah! Minot, South Dakota, you exist, even if just in my mind.

March 25th -- what's on your feet

My favorite socks!

I am ridiculously picky about my socks. When I was a little girl, I gave my Grandma Holter a very hard time about putting my shoes on because my socks weren't exactly lined up against my toes. I forced her to put my shoes on three times before I deemed it was acceptable. Looking back, I wonder how a three year old child held such power. Haha!!

However, all joking aside: if my socks don't fit right, my feet hurt. Weird, eh?

Grandma Irene

Last January, Jesse took me to visit his Grandma. My first impression of her was the quiet voice... wrinkles... blue veined hands...  many years lived. She was 95 years old and very frail looking. Her husband of many decades had passed away several months before, leaving her a widow. I felt it must have been hard being alone for the first time in so many years. But as each person greeted her, she looked so very pleased and happy to see us. When Jesse introduced me as his girlfriend, Irene looked up at me kindly and smiled. Then she gave me a hug as she welcomed me.

It was a delight that her fragility of body never extended to her mind. I listened to her infrequent comments to Paul and the others... each word was purposed; she never spoke sharply or out of turn. In fact, watching the others react to her, and to each other, in her presence, I began to see where my boyfriend's gentle, loving nature had stemmed from. "Ma" was queen of her home and her law was kindness; everyone felt it and everyone obeyed it.

The visit lasted a couple hours, then we donned on our heavy winter coats and shoes and got ready take our leave. Irene bade each of us farewell: as she stood by her door with her walker, she grasped my hand and pulled me to her. She gave me another hug and looked into my eyes. She asked very quietly, "Are you happy?" 

The concern and .... love? ... for me caught me by surprise.. This woman had just met me and she knew only a little bit about me. But I know now that she had been observing me all evening, trying get an idea of what kind of a girl her grandson had chosen to be his girlfriend. And her only question? "Are you happy?" 

It was that way the entire time I knew Irene. She was always kind, always thoughtful. My only wish is that I could have known her a little better. 

January 26th, 2012: Jesse woke me up saying that he had just gotten a phone call. Grandma was not doing well. As soon as I out of bed and dressed, we picked up Jesse's dad from the shop and headed down to Oxbow. As soon as I walked into the room, I felt the vibrancy of her spirit... missing. She lay there, a tiny form on the bed, her raspy breathing filling the room, eyes closed to the world. I don't know how much she was aware of as her three sons and loved ones sat around her. I don't know if she could hear our voices or see us when she half opened her eyes. I think she could sense the love that flowed from us all towards her. I hope she took comfort in it. 

When she passed away, late Saturday evening, there was mourning. We all felt a sense of loss and finality. But there also was a feeling of gratefulness that she was no longer suffering. The woman who loved is experiencing the great mystery of eternal life... eternal existence. We don't know exactly what she is knowing... living... having... right now. But we do know that the world was brightened by Irene Twietmeyer in those 96 years that she walked the earth. 

Thank you, Irene. 

Fiction -- Reflections

The thick clouds had gathered in an instant, seemingly. One moment, the mountains were sun kissed and shining with snow and the next, almost invisible. The wind stirs them and for a moment, I catch a glimpse. Then it comes swirling down and brushes my face, once again obscuring the tall forms towering above the valley.
Where else has that wind touched?

Looking over what I had just written, I picked up the notepad and tore out the page.
“ ‘Sun kissed’ sounds like L. M. Montgomery, who I am not.” I said aloud. “I’m Sarah. With a pen in my hand.” I crumpled the page and nearly tossed it into my waste basket. Then stopped myself. I sighed and smoothed the paper out again. I hate it when I’m in this mood. Even my music reflects it. The piano just doesn’t sound right.

My physiotherapist tells me that I think too much. Perhaps I do but sometimes it’s so nice just to sit, looking out my window and let my mind take me back over the past few months. Retrospect, they call it. I do not worry. I just think. And wonder. Smile over good memories and keep away from the others.

Life has never been what you might call boring. But the past few months have been positively riveting. It didn't matter if I was dancing through the house with my baby brother on my hip or rescuing an old lady in distress, I have been on my toes. Then, I got hurt. That's why I'm sitting here, right now, scribbling randomly on a piece of paper.

Israel's little hands clung to my shoulder as we whirled first one way then another... He squealed and giggled from a mixture of terror and joy. The look on his face could be defined as rapturous. Then we sat down on the living-room floor and giggled some more as I tickled his fat little belly...

Life can be so sweet.

Yes, it can be filled with dread... but amid the hard times, God sends His rainbows, sparkling and shining with promise and love. There is so much to be thankful for.

I listen to a violinist play with his song. Softly... the strings seem to quiver with emotion and I am still. Slowly he builds, the notes mournful and tender. The vibrato so cleverly done that only a listening ear could discern it. And now, the bow dances with seemingly wild abandon. When the end of the song comes, I realize I am not breathing.

What do they say? Life is like a violin... Yes, it's true.
I have heard the fiddle play a song for each of the phases of my short life... for love, for grief, for anger, for joy, for laughter, for melancholy, for faith, for selfishness, for tenderness, for duties... a song to echo my soul and each of it's desires.

Dusk is slowly falling through the valley. First it covers the mountains and the wind. Then slowly, it blots out the houses, one by one. As it slips into every room, lights come on and the warm glow of them sends a message that the dusk makes way for night. The wind whispers a secret and I look up. There is the moon. Warm. Genial face glimmering at me. Just a wink, then it vanishes and we are again clothed in darkness.

“God is in heaven. Good night, world,” I whisper, still gazing up

But, I can't sleep, so it's not good night for me. Not yet. Sitting here at my window, looking over this valley... I am still remembering.

When I look back over my life, there is a time that seems not unlike the evening's dusk. There was a time that I thought I had the perfect life with perfect people in it. I was quite satisfied... but my Maker wasn't.

My world fell apart. I was forced to look in one direction: up. But He never left me; not once. And, in time, He became not just a Savior but a friend, too. That was the dawning of a new day for me. The joy I have been blessed with has been beyond anything I could have ever imagined.
I can say with conviction that if He had not allowed my life to enter night and brought me to the Light, I would be not be alive today.

Not long ago, something happened to me and it was none of my fault. Oh yes, I asked, 'why?'. Yes, I felt the horror and shame. But through it all was my Friend. I still don't know why He allowed it to happen. Couldn't He have used another way to accomplish His purpose?
But He didn't.

I read His promises and think of them often... He does have a purpose for me. I know -- I do believe-- with all of my heart, that the tapestry He is weaving of my life will beautiful. I can only see the bottom of it, now. It looks so messy and there is scarcely a pattern to follow. But when it is done, I am anxious to see the top!

Oh yes! There is one thread I can see clearly throughout the bottom of my tapestry. The name of the thread color is God's love. And I am resting in that. Forever.

Someday, my feet will dance again. I promise you! But for now, my heart dances. It is enough.

As the girl drifted off into peaceful sleep, the wind parted the clouds and showed the moon making it's journey through the sky. Tomorrow would dawn another day. The mountains would still stand granite and vast. The sun would melt the clouds. Life would go on. Because it could go on.
Jesus was with her.

--Naomi Holter